


Turning the Tables

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Coming In Pants, Community: rounds_of_kink, M/M, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 11:13:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6003811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a twisted, one-sided game that Lincoln played with him. Not that Michael didn’t enjoy it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning the Tables

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foxriverinmate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxriverinmate/gifts).



> Written in 2008 for Rounds of Kink IX (second take on a prompt)  
> Prompt and kink by Foxriverinmate: Even at sixteen Michael still lost control when his brother touched him that way.

It was a twisted, one-sided game that Lincoln played with him. Not that Michael didn’t enjoy it.

When Lincoln felt it was okay – Michael never knew on what criteria he based his decision – he would hug him, tug him down and indulge him, indulge them, in inappropriate yet delicious caresses. He would brush his fingers over Michael’s body, mapping it, hovering and lingering on Michael’s hot spots until he had him gasping, panting and squirming beside him on the bed or the couch.

Twisted because even at sixteen Michael still lost control when his brother touched him that way. He had wanted this since he was old enough to actually understand what he yearned for; Lincoln finally, occasionally yielding left him craving, his mind reeling and his skin a bit more oversensitive with each contact, each caress. Lincoln knew it, there was no way he hadn’t noticed. He knew it, just as he knew how and where to stroke and fondle Michael to make him bite his lips and clench his fists, fighting to keep a semblance of control over his reactions. In the end of course, he always failed to both of their delight, and a tell tale stain spread on the front of his jeans or short or pajamas, signing Lincoln’s victory as Michael rested against him, spent, flushed and breathless. Grateful.

One-sided because Lincoln never ever allowed Michael to reciprocate. Getting him off was okay; allowing him to return the favor was an absolute no-no. Guilt, Michael had figured out long ago – guilt for allowing this to happen, guilt for wanting his baby brother that way. So Lincoln compromised. He skimmed his hands over him, grabbed handfuls of shoulders, hips and buttocks, even palmed his crotch through his pants. He hovered over his face and let their mouths sweep against each other’s, more a touch than an actual kiss. But Michael was permitted little more than slipping his hand under the hem of Lincoln’s shirt to feel his brother’s skin or cupping the back of his head to bring him closer. Thus, his gratefulness was quite tainted by the fact that Lincoln wouldn’t let him give back.

There would be none of that today. At the first, teasing kiss Lincoln planted in his neck, he had decided that today, he _would_ reciprocate; he would have Lincoln groan and jerk until he wasn’t able to hold back anymore. He would give his brother a taste of his own medicine. So, instead of biting his lips, he let out a loud moan that made Lincoln look up at him and ask, “What are you doing?” in a mixture of trepidation and arousal. Rather than clenching his fists, he opened his hands wide, slid one of them up Linc’s chest, and the other one down, in the loose waistband of his sweatpants, looking for the hard column of flesh. He knew Lincoln would be hard – there was strong-willed, and then there was _strong-willed_ , and Lincoln really couldn’t have this kind of control over his body – but he uttered another, quieter, moan at the sensation under his fingertips. It was unfair, totally unfair, because Lincoln wasn’t prepared to face this kind of onslaught. Never saw it coming, which, Michael thought sarcastically, was a bit naïve for a man as down-to-earth as his brother.

Lincoln’s croaked “Don’t!” morphed into a groan when Michael closed his hand around him and started to stroke up and down. Slowly, firmly, ruthlessly just as he had imagined he would. He was mesmerized, enthralled by the combination of warmth and silkiness, stiffness and sticky wetness in his hand, and above all, by the fact that it was _Lincoln_ ’s shaft twitching, swelling, hardening in the palm of his hand. He wrapped his fingers around it, flicked and twisted his wrist, attentive to his brother’s response. Quite positive response, actually. Now it was Lincoln who laid as still as possible, clenched his fists and bit his lips – at least until Michael rolled over him, rubbing his crotch against Lincoln’s thigh, and whispered in his ear, “I want you to come.”

Lincoln had to laugh at that. Despite his situation, he couldn’t help it, couldn’t keep a hint of sarcasm out of his voice, and he blurted out, “Yeah, little shit. Thanks for the tip, but I’ve figured out that one.” Then, his protests mixed with pleas to go faster, harder and stop teasing, on and on until Michael silenced him with a kiss. As Lincoln grunted into the kiss and thrust his hips up, thrust into the fist that held him, Michael's strokes became more forceful, more frantic, driving his brother over the edge. Lincoln’s release on his hand, Lincoln’s gasping for air against his lips made him shiver with satisfaction, and he kept on caressing him until Linc faintly hissed and pushed his hand away.

Still breathing hard, Lincoln kissed his chin and grumbled into his mouth a combination of apologies, threat and thanks. The tone of his voice, its roughness got to Michael before he had a chance to dwell on his recent triumph and had him arch down, desperate for more contact. He was unceremoniously flipped onto his back and, with a feral grin, Lincoln loomed over him, slid down and pushed his legs apart. He settled there, his face nestled between Michael’s thighs, to nuzzle, twiddle and lick the hard bulge in his pants. In a matter of seconds, Michael was back to clenching his fists and biting his lips, propelled on his elbows not to miss the image of Lincoln looking up to hold his gaze as he fondled his erection, his mouth wide open, insistent and hot even through the heavy fabric.

Too much – Lincoln’s hands under his ass, his lips on his crotch, his eyes looking up and holding his gaze... His climax gripped his stomach and lower back and surged through his body, red hot and irrepressible. His eyes rolling up in his head, he fell back on the pillows with a stifled cry, and shook and clawed at Lincoln’s shoulders and neck for what felt like an eternity. When he finally came back to his senses, his heart pounding in his chest and his sight a bit blurry, he met Lincoln’s look, followed it to the splotch smearing the fly of his jeans and smirked.

Well. Nothing new here. It was usually how it ended, with his boxers and pants a damp and sticky mess, Lincoln lingering to gather an ultimate shudder of pleasure, milking him until he was sure Michael was totally spent. And he did have an ultimate shudder this time too, part excruciating pleasure and part sharp pain, when Lincoln snaked his tongue over the wet spot on his fly, pressing hard and sucking as if to taste him.

“Fuck! Linc...”

“Watch your mouth.”

Michael motioned him up and on his back to settle against him. “You’d better clean up a bit,” Lincoln advised, and sure, he was right. It would soon be quite uncomfortable, no doubt about it, but for now, he gingerly touched the moist fabric and sighed in contentment.

“In a minute.” He closed his eyes, concentrating on Lincoln’s body under his, on Lincoln’s mouth grazing his. He felt limp and sated; he knew he would have to move soon but wanted to enjoy the moment for a few more minutes.

“What you did. You know it’s forbidden.” Lincoln smacked his butt in late retaliation. The light slap induced an involuntary friction of his groin on Lincoln’s leg and he moaned faintly at the sensation. Too sensitive.

“I know nothing,” he shot back, lying shamelessly. He licked Lincoln’s jaw and watched the skin covering in small goose-bumps. “You had it coming, anyway.”

“Oh really?”

“You know what it does to me when you touch me like that. It was only a matter of time.”

Michael didn’t quite get what his brother replied, but it looked terribly like _The later, the better_.

“You really should clean up.”

“In a minute.” With a sigh, Lincoln rocked him against his chest and rubbed his hands up his sides, bending his knees to encage Michael between them. His fingers drew lines and curves on the lean muscles of his back and, with a content groan, Michael said, “Just a few more minutes.”

His lips touched Lincoln’s earlobe when he spoke, making his brother flinch with pleasure, and Michael smiled. Maybe this was finally becoming a two-player game.

END

Comments and/or kudos are always ♥ 


End file.
